The leaves I’m leaning over right now are the same colour as the vomit I’ve donated into the drain beside them. I laugh quietly, internally. Why am I thinking about leaves? Colours? Vomit? Why am I not even slightly anxious about the strangers watching me, possibly worrying about me, wondering if I’m ok or if they should or need to do anything to help me…or, in this post covid world, maybe they’re thinking about how to stay safe FROM me.
What do you think when you see someone unwell? Do you stay calm, slip into crisis management mode and think about helping? Do you get scared, wondering oh no, does she have it, have covid? Is she contagious? Is this some new horrible virus, the next pandemic? Both are normal reactions as is somewhere in between though the calm crisis management response is at least a little abnormal, a little wonderful, admirable and inspiring.
I’m not thinking about any of that, I’m noticing all the beautiful autumn colours of the leaves as they are squashed up against the sides of the drain and my chemo sickness slides down the grill over the top of them, beside them, disappearing into the deepest darkest London drain below. Wonder where it ends up? Does it pass under your house, my house? Or seep out into the underworld of this, vast, amazing city.
Gingerly, I unfold from my forward bend after what feels like half an hour. Only minutes have passed. I am relieved to see the open taxi door, the taxi driver’s patience as he waits for me to be ok enough to get back into the car. He hasn’t driven off; he doesn’t seem worried about me soiling his car, ruining his day. Thank goodness I splashed out on an exec car. I notice the slightly weird angle the car was holding in the street; the driver’s, unruffled (so grateful for that) rapid response (oh so very VERY grateful for that) as he had stopped the car when I had managed to whisper firmly stop now please, I’m going to be sick.
Shaky, trembling, feverish and nauseous, I did feel slightly better; certainly better than I had done all morning. I’d run late for a meeting, and then literally run to try and make it on time, only to find the person I was connecting with was sick too and had not bothered to tell his colleagues I was coming in. In the end, after breakfast on the house, getting something into my stomach to absorb the swathes of medication I’d downed and after a hopeful meeting with his apologetic colleague I felt safe again, listened to, cared about. I decided I had chosen the right venue for my upcoming shindig after all. The day wasn’t a complete disaster, in fact, so far most things had gone well.
Looking forward to being home and resting on the couch in front of the tv for the rest of the day, I crept back into the taxi, thanked the driver for his serenity and fluid driving skills, leant against the window and closed my eyes. I noticed how far I’d come, how I simply did not get embarrassed easily anymore, that feeling embarrassed, apologetic somehow, felt like a complete waste of my very precious time, energy and effort. I reminded myself embarrassment IS a valid feeling like all other feelings. Even though I wished we never had to experience embarrassment or shame. Those emotions crippled me in my early life and at various times throughout my teens, twenties and thirties. I had done anything to avoid embarrassment; the discomfort of being noticed in an unwanted way, of feeling shame, being caught out somehow, feeling the fool, of being judged naive, gullible or stupid.
Thank goodness I’m not so easily embarrassed anymore. I simply don’t care if I’m stared at while throwing up in the street, or when I do something wrong, make a mistake, am caught out, feel out of my depth or don’t know something. It’s easier than you think. Not caring doesn’t mean not taking responsibility; I still apologise when wrong, try to fix errors and am willing to quickly agree when I have misunderstood someone or something.
Yet remember, like me, you are human and just because you don’t know everything, or are sensitive and open enough to take something at face value and not realise someone is messing, teasing you, and above all you recognise you, me, we, ALL have, as much right, yes as much right as absolutely every other person…every other human being on this planet…to be here, to exist, to take up space, to have needs, wants, desires, have and use our voice.
We are as human enough as the next person therefore when I am being human, doing human things, like being unwell, throwing up, navigating chemotherapy, living life, craving being home on the couch…I don’t have to bother with embarrassment. I am already well and truly – ENOUGH.
I’m on a new treatment called DVD and it’s fairly heavy duty so no surprise I wasn’t going to get away unscathed. I want the regime to work. I need it to work if I am going to be able to hang about on this planet for a little longer; a little longer than the statistics still give me hope for. Anyway I’m here. I’m still here. I’m loving life, despite its challenges. I’m not going anywhere other than on travel adventures as much and as often as I can. I will be spending time with the most wonderful, special people I am privileged to have in my life, share this planet with as much and as often, as I can.
Happy holidays, Hanukkah and Christmas everyone regardless of what you do and don’t celebrate. I hope you are having an especially special break in whichever way suits YOU best.
Take care out there,
p.s. if anyone is hurting and needs support contact us at ComposurePsychology
Acknowledgements and References
Images: Me or courtesy of various artists on Unsplash.
© 2022 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Posted in Covid, Myeloma Treatment, Psychology for Cancer, Symptoms and Side Effects, Uncategorized Tagged with: Bortezomib (Velcade), Cancer, Chemotherapy, Daratumumab, Dexamethazone, DVD, emotions, Myeloma, Nausea, Psychology, RIchLife, Steroids, Treatment
Hello you. Is anybody out there? Sorry I have been so silent for so long; it’s been a heck of a hard eight months. That’s not to say there haven’t been some good times, some great times, times I’ve felt adventurous, happy, even peaceful. There have though, been times when I’ve thought this is just too much. Too much everything. I may have been giving this blog the silent treatment, yet in my head, I have written so many, many, times.
If any one thing had happened, gone wrong, been challenging; I would have been able to cope. Life doesn’t work that way, though, does it? One thing happens, then another, and while I get my head around those, another and another, like multiple, side by side dominos tracks; they all cascade, one by one and at the same time – bang, bang, bang.
After about the third bang…my ability to do the helpful, healthy things went out of the window. I fell of the tracks… I struggled to get back on. For a week, I managed it, then I fell off again. I picked myself up, recommitted but only for a day … and then I …gave up.
Sugar, alcohol, copious amounts of coffee, long periods of not eating, then eating crap, withdrawal, duvet days, not wanting to socialise, wanting to be on the couch with TV and the cat…all re-entered my life with a vengeance. I was no longer walking the psychologist and cancer care talk.
Except I couldn’t escape the knowing. I knew what was happening. I watched it happen. I watched everything I’d built up to support me, over the previous year since diagnosis, slip away. Despite this, somehow, I was still managing to function, to help others, to turn up at the cancer centre and be the psychologist, I knew myself to be. The cost was high. Exhaustion kicked in. Overwhelm. Then the next domino fell, and the next and another.
So, I fell off the tracks and self-care plans. I stopped walking my talk. Out went the green smoothies and in came caffeine and Pisco sours. I was in cope, any way I could, mode.
Turns out I am very, very, human after all. Who knew?
And the dominos…Well, one you already know about, if you caught my last two blogs,
Isoflavones and Tears on a plane
The others were a shock to me, maybe to you too.
The first set;
1. My hands stopped working.
2. Mum got cancer.
3. An internet troll joined my party.
I’m not silent anymore.
Posted in Cancer in my family, Psychology for Cancer, Symptoms and Side Effects, Uncategorized Tagged with: Cancer, Family, Fatigue, Mother, Psychology, Side effects, Troll